


The Tuesday Affair

by LadyRa



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-01-15
Updated: 2003-01-15
Packaged: 2017-12-16 20:37:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRa/pseuds/LadyRa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something horrible has happened. Can Napoleon change it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tuesday Affair

Napoleon poured himself another drink, sloshing a good portion of it over the table, partly because he was drunk, and partly because he wasn't drunk enough. He didn't think there was enough liquor in the world to do the job tonight.

Illya was dead. He'd been alive this morning when he'd gone into the office. They'd chatted a bit, like they did every day. Then they both went off on errands for Mr. Waverly. Illya didn't come back from his.

Late in the afternoon, Napoleon had been called to Waverly's office, and with more compassion than he'd thought the old man capable of, he'd been informed that his partner was dead, shot to death in what had obviously been a trap.

Napoleon had refused to believe it. He'd insisted on being taken down to the morgue, needing to see Illya's lifeless body for himself, see the bullet wound in his chest that had taken his partner's life. The bullet that removed from Napoleon's life: his partner, his best friend, and maybe more.

That was the thing that was ripping Napoleon apart. Illya had been so much more to him, and Napoleon had never said anything, never acted on it, never held the Russian as he'd wanted to, or kissed him, or caressed his body. He'd always thought he'd have time, that they'd eventually make their way there. That Illya would, one day, give him some sort of clue that he wanted it too, that Napoleon was more than just a friend and a partner.

Napoleon had ordered his escort to leave him alone with Illya. He'd seen the look they exchanged, but as he was second in command they could hardly disobey. He didn't care what they thought, he just knew that once he left this room, he'd never set eyes on Illya again.

His partner had been laid out on a metal table, covered with a thin sheet. The attendant had pulled it back to reveal the Russian's face and it was folded over just below Illya's nipples, a couple of inches from the wound where the bullet had pierced his heart. 

Napoleon had first touched the wound, as if that might make it real. Then he had touched Illya's cheek. His hand had jerked back as if he had touched a hot stove, except there had been nothing hot about it. Illya's skin had been so cold, all of its pliancy gone. That had gotten through to him like nothing else had. Napoleon had sunk to his knees and let out a sob. 

The loss was like a physical injury. Napoleon's skin had felt too tight, his chest as if he had been the one to take the bullet, but instead of bleeding blood, he bled out hope, and dreams, and memories of shy smiles. He had been seconds from putting his head back and screaming out his anguish when he'd remembered where he was and that the agents were probably right outside the door. He had jammed his knuckles in his mouth to keep any other sound from escaping; his eyes shut tightly, an ineffective defense to keep the tears at bay. 

It had taken more control than he thought he had to pull himself together and walk out of that room. Everyone kept their distance as he made his way down the hallways wanting only to get back to his office so he could retrieve his keys and go home. He saw several red-rimmed eyes, knew that the news about Illya was out. Napoleon was grateful for whatever was on his face that kept people away. He wasn't sure he wouldn't have killed anyone who offered him sympathy. 

He'd driven home in a fog, and once in the garage he had sat in his car staring at nothing until the guard had rapped on his window to ask if he was all right. There was no answer to that, so he'd smiled tightly and made his way up to his apartment, heading immediately for his kitchen to grab the first full bottle of liquor he found. 

So here he was, hours later, and he still wasn't drunk enough. He finally managed to get the glass full, his hand shaking so hard he was barely able to set the bottle back down on the table safely. He didn't know how to do this anymore. He'd done it once, when his wife died, but that was a long time ago, with the resiliency of youth on his side, surrounded by family and friends and the support of a church and a God he used to believe in. 

Napoleon hadn't realized how insular his life had become. Ever since Illya had walked into Waverly's office, and been introduced to him as his new partner, he had slowly taken over Napoleon's life, until now that he was gone, it truly felt as if there was nothing left. Nothing to hold on to, nothing to pull himself up by. Just an empty office, and an empty life.

Anger suddenly swept through him and changing his grip on his glass, he hurled it against the wall. The bottle followed immediately after. He watched as the glass shattered, the liquor staining the wall in an ugly splotch, slowly puddling on the floor. The anger not nearly spent, Napoleon stood, upending the table in a furious motion.

The china salt and pepper shakers exploded on impact with the floor, the white and dark spices mixing as momentum spread the particles in a wide swath across the linoleum. The pepper made him sneeze once, then twice and he moved into the bedroom to escape the pepper dust.

Napoleon sat on the bed. He wished for a moment that he were at Illya's. He wanted to lie down on Illya's bed and use his pillow, sleep under his blankets, smelling the scent of his body, the soap he used, his shampoo, before time erased all trace of him. He might have gone if his body hadn't curled into a fetal position, if he hadn't started weeping, if the combination of the alcohol and the tears hadn't mercifully pulled him into sleep.

* * *

Napoleon felt drained of emotion and physically exhausted when he awoke. The day ahead of him felt like the first of an interminable, unbearable stretch of weeks and months and years. He lay in bed as long as he could until any further delay would make him late for work. 

He knew that he could take time off. In fact, his co-workers would probably be surprised he chose to come in. But he saw no earthly good in staying home where there was nothing to distract him, nothing to keep him company except the darkness of his thoughts. 

Forcing himself to get up, knowing he now only had time for a quick shower, he headed for the bathroom. It wasn't until he looked at himself in the mirror that he realized that he didn't have a hangover. His face looked relatively unscathed considering the effort he put toward drinking himself into oblivion. Napoleon felt the sting of tears, and clenched his jaw, refusing to surrender to the painful emotions.

He dressed as quickly as possible and paused at the kitchen, wondering if he had the energy to make a quick cup of coffee. The table caught his eye; it was upright. Napoleon shook his head. He must have been drunker than he thought because he could remember tipping it over, but he couldn't remember picking it up. He glanced around. He must have swept up all the glass as well. And swabbed down the wall. And swept up the salt and pepper. He frowned. There was no way he could have forgotten doing all of that.

He shook his head again. It didn't matter. He wondered if April had come by after he'd fallen asleep and cleaned the place up. Tired of the mystery already, he dismissed it, and left the apartment.

On the way to work, he almost reconsidered the wisdom of venturing out. Everything he saw reminded him of Illya. What would it be like to sit in his office, seeing Illya's desk, his chair, his coffee cup? Napoleon wasn't sure he could stand it. But he kept driving. There was no sanctuary from this agony. There were memories at his apartment, memories all over the city, all over the world, for that matter.

He arrived at the UNCLE parking garage and drove in. The guard gave his usual greeting, Mr. Del Floria grunted his, and the receptionist gave him a cheery smile, pinning on Napoleon's badge as if this were any other day. He glanced at her, wondering if somehow she hadn't heard the news. Napoleon had no intention of being the one to tell her; he didn't think he could force the words past his lips.

Napoleon made it to his office without seeing more than a handful of people. They all looked as if they might greet him, but on closer examination of his face, they passed him by silently. As he was about to enter his office, he heard sounds within.

A rage filled him as he imagined someone cleaning off Illya's desk, packaging up his personal effects. He moved closer and triggered the door to open, having every intention of ripping the intruder's head off. 

Illya looked up from his coffee, shaking out the newspaper. "Good morning."

Napoleon put a hand out to balance himself against the wall as his knees gave out. 

Illya was next to him in seconds, grabbing his arm, holding him up. "What's the matter? Are you ill? You look horrible."

Napoleon let out a strangled laugh. "Me? I look horrible?" All he could see was Illya lying on that metal table, white and cold and hard. He let Illya lead him across the office, allowed him to push him down onto his chair.

Illya's face was full of consternation. "I'm serious, Napoleon. You don't look well. Maybe you should go home."

"What day is it?" 

Illya looked even more worried. "That's it. Come on, I'm taking you home."

"No, what day is it? Tell me."

"Tuesday."

Napoleon dropped his face in his hands and let out a shaky breath. It was Tuesday. That meant the Tuesday he'd just lived through had all been a dream. The whole thing. That's why his table had been fine, why he hadn't had a hangover. It had all been a dream. A horrible, larger than life, vivid dream. Napoleon drew in a long breath.

Illya crouched down by Napoleon's side. "Napoleon, what is it? What's happened?"

Napoleon lifted his head and just stared at his partner. At his worried, frowning, and very alive partner. He had never seen anything more wonderful. He raised a hand and touched Illya's face, cupping his cheek. The skin was warm, and soft. He leaned forward and rested his forehead against Illya's. "Don't ever die, okay?"

"Did someone die? Is that what happened?"

Knowing he was confusing Illya, he decided to tell him the truth. Napoleon pulled his head back and smiled tightly at him. "I had a dream last night that you died. It felt very real."

Illya cocked his head to the side as he considered his partner. "But now you see that I am alive. Yes?"

"Yes. Now I see that you are alive." Napoleon couldn’t stop looking at him, drinking him in.

"Good. I'm hungry. Let's go eat." Illya stood. "Food will make you feel better."

Napoleon let out a half-laugh, trying to feel normal. "You're confused. Food always makes you feel better."

Illya nodded. "That's true. But considering what it takes to make you feel better, I thought eating would create less of a public spectacle." He grinned. "That's assuming you met someone willing along the way."

Napoleon twisted his mouth in mock annoyance. "There is always someone willing."

Illya crossed the office and the door slid open. "Well, don't let me stand in your way." He gestured, as if offering Napoleon the entire building. "Not when all I have to offer is breakfast."

Napoleon shook his head. Nothing was going to pry him from Illya's side, not until he was able to throw the dream off. Right now, its talons were still deeply embedded. "And deprive you of my company? Never." Napoleon tried for insouciance but knew he didn't hit it quite right.

Something in his voice must have tipped Illya off. He walked back over to Napoleon. "It must have been a very bad dream."

"It was."

Illya smiled softly at him and reached out a hand, pulling Napoleon to his feet. "Then come with me, and you can watch me eat until you are sure I am alive."

Napoleon fought off the urge to hug him. Then he had to fight off the urge just to touch him, to take him by the arm, or the hand, or to touch his cheek again, maybe run his fingers through the blonde silky hair. 

Illya was staring at him again. Then he reached out and took Napoleon's arm. "I think you need a cup of coffee, too."

Napoleon willingly allowed himself to be pulled. Actually a cup of coffee might be a good thing. As they walked down the hall, he noticed that Illya still kept hold of his arm, and suspected that his partner had guessed he needed the touch. Whatever the reason, Napoleon was grateful. 

They made their way through the commissary line and found a table where they could sit alone. Napoleon drank his coffee, watching as Illya dug in to his breakfast. He knew Illya knew he was watching him, but Napoleon couldn't pull his eyes away. That dream had felt so real; he had never had a dream like that.

"Tell me about it."

"Hmm?"

"The dream. How did I die?"

Napoleon shook his head. He didn't want to talk about it. 

"No, I want to know. And I think you need to talk about it."

"You--you were shot."

Illya's eyebrows went up. "That's it? I was shot?" He sat back in his chair. "By your reaction I thought I'd been drawn and quartered at least, or died a slow miserable death sinking into quicksand while you stood by watching, held captive by THRUSH."

Napoleon gave a quick shake of his head. "I didn't actually see you die."

A puzzled expression crossed Illya's face. "I thought you said you did."

"No. The dream started after you'd been shot. I dreamed all the things that would have happened afterwards. I dreamed getting called into Waverly's office and being told you were dead. I dreamed I went and saw your body in the morgue, and touched your chest wound, and felt how cold you were. I dreamed that I went home and tried to drink myself into a stupor so it wouldn't hurt--" 

Napoleon stopped, appalled that his voice was getting thick and his eyes stinging. He took another sip of his coffee, giving himself a minute, hoping Illya wouldn't see how his hand was shaking. He glanced up at Illya, saw that he had noticed, saw the concern in his eyes. Napoleon tried to laugh it off. "It's all right. Probably something I ate."

"A bit of undigested meat? More of gravy than of grave?"

Napoleon barked out a strained laugh. "Exactly. And I got a visit from the ghost of Christmas yet to come." Somehow having a literary reference to wrap his arms around made it feel more like a dream and less a shocking reality. 

"I would suggest a menu change this evening."

"Have dinner with me?" The words were out before they became a conscious thought.

Illya gave him a lopsided smile. "Watching me eat one meal wasn't enough to convince you?"

Napoleon just shook his head, keeping his real reason to himself. It felt remarkably like he'd been given a second chance, and he didn't want to waste another day. It was time to start moving into the 'maybe more' part of their relationship. "I just want to be with you." The lopsided smile turned into a shy one, and Napoleon was charmed by it. He smiled back. "Will you?"

Illya gazed at Napoleon for a few seconds. "Do I get to pick the restaurant?"

"Anywhere you want to go." Illya's eyes took on a mischievous glint. Napoleon qualified his answer. "Within reason." He qualified it again. "And it can't be someplace you know I hate."

Illya scowled. "You take all the fun out of it, Napoleon."

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes, yes, I'll have dinner with you." Illya stood. "Now let's go back to our office and you can stare at me while I do my paperwork." 

Napoleon grinned. The dream was finally starting to lose its hold on him and something inside began to relax. "Sounds good. And when you're done, I can watch you do my paperwork."

Illya snorted, and led the way back to the office. Once there, the morning slipped by as both men slowly cleared their desks. Right before lunch, Napoleon was called into Waverly's office.

Waverly spun the table around until an envelope rested in front of Napoleon. "I need you to deliver this. It needs to be dropped off at 1:30, exactly."

Napoleon frowned at the envelope. He didn't like playing delivery boy. "Why me?" Something about the conversation rang a bell but he pushed it aside as he listened to his boss.

"The contents are rated top security. Besides myself, only you and Mr. Kuryakin have the clearance to have it in your possession. And I have other plans for your Russian friend this afternoon."

Napoleon tensed. "What sort of plans?"

"Something's come up in the lab."

Napoleon relaxed. He stood, picked up the envelope and slid it into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, and looked at Waverly. "Anything else I should know?"

"Just get that delivered safely, Mr. Solo."

Napoleon gave Waverly a jaunty salute. "Consider it done." He felt quite cheery now that he knew Illya would be safely ensconced in the lab all afternoon. He left the old man's office and headed for the one he shared with Illya. He poked his head in the door and said, "I've got to go deliver a package. I'll grab some lunch while I'm out."

Illya furrowed his brows. "What? You don't need to watch me eat again? Does that mean dinner's off?"

Napoleon gave him a look. "Very funny." He pointed a warning finger at his partner. "Waverly has you playing in the lab all afternoon so be nice to the other boys and girls. And I'll be at your place at 7:00. Figure out where you want to go and make reservations."

Illya waved him off. "Go deliver your package and stop bothering me."

Napoleon grinned and shut the door. He made his way out of the building and hailed a taxi, deciding he didn't have the patience to drive across town during lunch hour traffic. Once seated in the back seat, the cab in motion, he took a closer look at the address and it triggered a sense of déjà vu. It took Napoleon a few moments to identify it but it finally slid into place. He had dreamed this last night. This errand, this address. His blood ran cold.

For a moment he considered stopping the taxi and running back to headquarters, needing to be sure his partner was all right. Then he got a grip on himself and took a deep breath, trying to think about it rationally. He must have seen the address on a piece of paperwork he'd done over the last few days and for some reason it got caught in his nightmare. Certainly it seemed as if an infinite number of pieces of paper flew across his desk. And Waverly would hardly find his worrying about a dream adequate excuse for missing a drop-off.

Only partially reassured, Napoleon sat back in the cab. As the minutes ticked by faster than the traffic, his anxiety began to grow. Wishing vehemently that he'd never gone to bed last night, he turned his thoughts to daydreaming about dinner with Illya and how, if he were very lucky, he might end up with a night of little actual sleeping. 

Napoleon let out a sigh of relief as the taxi finally arrived. He glanced at his watch; it had taken almost an hour to get here. That left him about 45 minutes before he made contact with the drop. Napoleon decided he'd grab a bite to eat now. He looked for a likely location and saw a little Italian place called Angelo's that looked promising.

He was seated and handed a menu. When he opened it, a shiver ran down his spine. He'd been here in his dream. He'd ordered the rigatoni with a side of garlic bread. He fumbled for his communicator, looking quickly around to make sure no one was watching him. He signaled his partner.

"Kuryakin."

Napoleon almost gasped in relief. "Where are you?"

"In the lab." Napoleon could almost hear his partner frown. "Why? Where are you? Are you in trouble?"

"No. No, I'm fine." Napoleon wasn't sure about that; he thought he might be going a little crazy. "I'm having lunch."

"I'm sorry, Napoleon, but I already ate. Otherwise I'd chew a little for you."

"Wise ass." Napoleon heard the soft chuff of Illya's quiet laugh. He could hear someone calling his partner.

"I have to go. They're calling me."

"Okay, but Illya…?"

"What?"

"Stay in the lab, all right?" 

"I'm not going anywhere, and if you stop interrupting me, I might actually be done with this experiment in time for dinner."

"Crabby Russian." Solo sighed off, grinning. The grin slid off his face when he looked at the menu again. What was the rational explanation for this? He couldn't remember eating here before. He supposed that every Italian restaurant had a similar sort of menu. The waitress showed up. Napoleon decided not to tempt fate. He ordered the lasagna, and passed on the garlic bread.

He barely tasted his lunch; his guts were churning. He avoided the temptation to check in with Illya again. Napoleon noted the time and, throwing a more than adequate amount of money on the table, he hurried out.

Napoleon arrived at the drop-off point at exactly 1:30. No one was there. Napoleon snorted. The thought crossed his mind that his contact had been late in his dream. He remembered looking at his watch when the contact had shown up, and noting that it was 1:36. It had been a man, a big man, a couple of inches taller than Napoleon, and quite a few pounds heavier. He'd been wearing a light brown belted London Fog raincoat with a burberry patterned collar.

Napoleon hoped with everything in him that a woman would show up, or a skinny short man, or even a goddamn circus clown with a red rubber nose. Anyone but a big man wearing a London Fog raincoat. When his watch showed 1:36, Napoleon closed his eyes and then, guardedly, looked in the direction the man had approached from in his dream. 

He was there. All six foot whatever of him, and his damned raincoat. It was the fastest handover in Napoleon's life. The man said the required password and Napoleon practically threw the envelope at him. He was hailing a taxi as he yanked out his communicator, signaling his partner again. 

He cursed when there was no answer. He signaled the main operator and once through he wasted no time on pleasantries. "This is Solo, put me through to the lab."

Realizing he was on a bad corner for a cab, he started to sprint down the block. Someone he didn't recognize answered. It sounded as if he caught them mid yawn. "Lab." 

"I need to talk to Illya." He added a postscript. "This is Napoleon Solo." He didn't usually throw his name around, but he was in no mood for delays.

The person on the other side grew suddenly obsequious. "Oh, Mr. Solo, I’m sorry, but Mr. Kuryakin isn't here. He left about 30 minutes ago to see Mr. Waverly."

Napoleon ran a hand down the lower half of his face. "Patch me through to his office."

There was a hesitant pause. "Uh, I don't know how to do that. Let me go get--"

"Never mind." Solo disconnected and signaled the main operator again. In a few seconds he was talking to his boss.

"Yes, Mr. Solo? I trust you successfully delivered the package."

"Yes, signed, sealed and delivered. I need to speak with Illya. Is he there?" Please, he thought, please be there.

"No. One of the lab suppliers called with a shipment to be picked up. Due to the explosive nature of the supplies, they requested that Mr. Kuryakin pick it up himself." 

Napoleon's heart was pounding. "I have reason to believe that he might be in danger. Do you know where he was going?"

"Yes. Yes, I do." Waverly rattled off an address. "What makes you believe he's in danger?"

A taxi finally answered one of Napoleon's frantic hails. "If you don't mind, I'd rather tell you later." If Illya was fine, and Napoleon went chasing off after him because of a dream he'd had, Waverly would have him seeing a psychiatrist before the day was through.

Waverly harrumphed. "Perhaps I should send an agent out from here."

"No, I'm actually closer to him than you are. It's probably nothing." Napoleon hoped to God he was right.

Another harrumph came across the communicator. "Very well, Mr. Solo, but I expect a full report later."

Solo signed off and climbed in the cab that had just stopped. He gave the address to the driver and sat back. Then he leaned forward. "Get me there fast and there's an extra twenty in it for you." He was slammed back against the seat as the taxi took off with a squeal of rubber. Satisfied that only a miracle could get him there faster, he still drummed a nervous tattoo on the seat next to him.

He worked out the times in his head. If Illya had been called to see Waverly thirty minutes ago, and had then gone back to his office to get his jacket, maybe stopped to talk to a few people--. Napoleon sighed as he glanced at his watch. No matter how many people Illya stopped and talked to, considering how short conversations with Illya generally were, he was still going to get to the address in question before Napoleon could. 

Napoleon pressed his foot to the ground, as if it might make the taxi driver go faster. He knew that was not only unlikely, but dangerous as well. He winced as the driver accelerated from a good distance when a light was turning yellow. It was full red as they raced through the intersection. The guy was certainly earning his twenty dollars.

Suddenly Napoleon remembered that Illya hadn't answered his communicator. He ran another set of times through his head. If Illya had left immediately, he could have already been there when Napoleon had tried to contact him. A feeling of dread shot down his spine. He tried to come up with reasons why Illya hadn't responded. Maybe Illya left the communicator in the lab, maybe he dropped it, maybe he'd heard Napoleon calling him, and decided he was sick of trying to convince his partner he was alive.

Not caring what the cabdriver thought, Napoleon pulled out his communicator and tried, once again, to hail Illya. "Come on, come on, answer." Nothing. He held the silver cylinder in his hand, trying to stem the tide of his panic.

He was thrown forward as the cab came to a slamming halt. "There you go, Mister."

Napoleon pulled out a wad of bills and threw two twenties in the front seat. He got out of the car, quickly orienting himself. Spotting the street sign, he found himself going down a shadowed alley. He counted numbers and when he arrived at Illya's destination, he frowned. Surely this couldn't be the place. This wasn't any sort of a supply warehouse. It was a deserted building. He could only hope that the location had raised enough red flags for Illya that he'd called for back up. Then Napoleon remembered whom he was dealing with, the man who never called for back up unless there were no other options. Illya wouldn't have known he was out of options until it was too late. 

Annoyed by his dithering, Napoleon tried the door. It was unlocked. Pulling out his gun, he opened it carefully, standing to the side. He waited for bullets to start flying, but all he was met with was silence. He pulled it all the way open and darted inside. His heart stopped when he saw his partner lying on the ground, surrounded by a pool of blood.

Napoleon let out a cry as he ran to him, falling to his knees next to his partner, heedless of the blood he knelt in. He felt for a pulse, but he knew he wouldn't find one. Illya's sightless eyes were staring up at the ceiling. Napoleon let out a deep groan and he pulled Illya up against his chest, rocking his body. 

He heard a clink and turned around to see Illya's communicator had fallen from his hand when Napoleon had moved him. Napoleon wondered if he'd been attempting to call for help, or trying to respond to Napoleon's pages, unable to speak as the blood drained out of his body. Or, God, maybe trying to answer Napoleon's call had distracted him for that fatal second. 

Napoleon had no idea how long he knelt there holding Illya's body, but he was shocked back into awareness when both communicators went off. He looked at Illya's as if it were some alien artifact. Finally, not loosing his grip on the Russian, he leaned down and picked it up. He could hardly speak. "Solo."

"Ah, Mr. Solo. Have you found Mr. Kuryakin yet?" When there was no answer, the voice spoke again, a bit more demanding. "Mr. Solo, report."

"He's dead."

"What?"

Napoleon's voice caught on a sob. "He's dead. I got here too late." 

There was a long pause. Then a clearing of a throat. "I'm sending someone to retrieve you now."

Napoleon just nodded, not caring that Waverly couldn't see him, and let the communicator fall to the ground. He tightened his hold on Illya and buried his face in the blonde hair.

They finally sedated him to get him to let go of Illya. Napoleon lay in an infirmary bed, still groggy. Waverly came to speak to him, wanting to know how he'd known Illya was in danger, but Napoleon didn't want to talk about it and turned his head away; it didn't matter anyway. Napoleon, in a foggy haze, heard the doctor shooing Waverly away, telling him that Napoleon needed to rest.

Napoleon didn't want to rest. He wanted to rail at the world. He wanted to claw his own heart out. He'd been given an unprecedented gift of foresight to save his partner's life, and he'd blown it. He'd ignored all the signs and rationalized every hint of danger. Illya was dead, again, but this time it was his fault.

Somewhere, unbidden, a crazy thought flickered through his mind and the hope it implied terrified him for a moment. Maybe he'd get another chance. Maybe he'd get another Tuesday. He let out a quiet moan. Maybe he was insane. He pushed the thought away, knowing that life didn't come with a rewind button.

But, like a cork in water, it kept bobbing to the surface. Maybe if he could fall asleep, this second Tuesday would have only been a dream, just like the first one. One of the nurses walked through, doing her rounds. "Napoleon? Are you awake?" She spoke softly. Everyone was speaking softly to him. He knew they were all afraid he was inches away from losing it. He wasn't sure they were wrong.

She peered down at him, and saw his eyes were open. "Oh, you are awake." She hesitated. "Do you need anything?"

Napoleon was glad she hadn't asked him if he was all right. If tomorrow proved to be Wednesday, he didn't think he'd ever be all right again. Right now, he was supposed to be having dinner with Illya, being charming and seductive, trying to woo his way into the Russian's heart and into his bed. "Can I have a sleeping pill? Something strong?"

He hated the pity in her eyes. Napoleon closed his so he didn't have to see it. He heard her response. "I'll go get you something."

Napoleon nodded. The sooner he was asleep, the sooner he'd know if he'd get another chance or not.

* * *

He woke up in his own bed. Napoleon pounded his fists against the mattress in an explosion of fierce joy. He rolled over and grabbed his communicator and signaled his partner. "Illya, Illya, are you there?" He stopped breathing. "Illya?"

A voice, heavily flavored with sleep and disgruntlement, finally answered. "What?" Then, "This better be important."

Napoleon laughed. "Stay right there. I’m coming over."

A whiny groan came over the silver cylinder. "Why? It's too early."

Napoleon laughed again. "It's time for all good Russian comrades to rise and shine so their American partners can take them out for breakfast."

There was a pause. "Napoleon, are you drunk?"

"Only on life, my friend."

There was another pause. "I'm going back to sleep."

"I'll be there in thirty minutes, Illya, ready or not."

Napoleon heard an exasperated sigh, and he grinned, closing down his communicator. He wasn't letting Illya out of his sight today, no matter what. He hopped in the shower, got dressed and practically skipped to the garage. Napoleon felt like a teenager in love on his way to pick up his prom date. Illya was alive.

He got to his friend's Village apartment in record time; for once the traffic seemed to be going in the other direction. Knocking on the door using the usual code, he waited a few seconds and then just let himself in, disarming the alarm. "Illya?"

"In the bedroom, I'll be out in a second."

Napoleon thought about just barging in, too impatient to wait long, but then Illya walked out, dressed in his usual black pants and turtleneck, the blond hair still ruffled from pulling the turtleneck over his head. Napoleon walked over to him and, reaching up, he started straightening the blond mop. He smiled at his partner, ignoring the startled look in his eyes. "Good morning." He made a final pat and then stepped back. "There, it's all properly coiffed now."

Illya gave him a look, and then rolled his eyes up as if he could see his hair that way, and gave his bangs a desultory comb with his fingers. "To what do I owe this dubious honor?"

"You mean for the hair styling? On the house, Illya."

Illya gave him a disgusted look. "No, I mean your visit at this ungodly hour of the morning. You're generally not even out of bed yet at this time of day, let alone dragging me out of mine."

Napoleon couldn't help it. The hair touching hadn't been nearly enough. He gave in to the urge he'd been fighting and pulled Illya into his arms, hugging him tightly. 

His heart skipped a beat when he felt Illya tentatively return the hug. Then his partner complained softly in his ear. "Are you sure you're not drunk?"

Illya's exhalation tickled Napoleon's ear and sent a jolt of desire through his body. He pulled back and lifted his hands to frame Illya's face, fingers sliding into the blond silk again. He held Illya's gaze for a few seconds, seeing a multitude of emotions cross the Russian's face: confusion, amusement, tenderness, wariness and, quickly squelched, a flash of desire. Napoleon smiled. "What would you do if I kissed you right now?"

Illya's eyes widened and then narrowed. "Before or after I hit you?"

Napoleon thought about it for a second. "After."

"I'd take you to the UNCLE infirmary and have them check you out for drugs and insanity."

Not quite the answer Napoleon was looking for. "Okay, how about before, then?"

"Before I hit you?"

"Yes, right when I’m pressing my lips against yours, and touching you with my tongue, right before you hit me, what would you do?" Napoleon's thumbs lightly caressed Illya's cheeks, the skin warm and soft. 

Illya's body spoke for him, leaning a little into Napoleon's caress. Then, as if realizing what he was doing, he shook his head and tried to back away. But, as far as Napoleon was concerned, the message had been sent and received and he kept Illya captive in his arms. 

Napoleon smiled. "Make it a long before, all right?" He canted his head to the right just a bit and softly touched Illya's lips with his own. His tongue lightly brushed along the sealed lips, requesting entry. 

Illya opened his mouth and tried to talk. Napoleon could hear it start out as his name but when Napoleon swept his tongue inside it turned into a groan. The sound of his ice-cold Russian partner groaning was a short-circuiting turn-on. One of Napoleon's hands moved into Illya's hair, cradling his head, while the other stroked down his spine, ending up at the small of Illya's back, pressing them together.

Illya kept groaning, little groans that Napoleon swallowed with his kisses, little groans that acted like shots of electricity to his already short-circuited nervous system and fed right into his groin. Napoleon let out a groan of his own. He'd known it would be good, but he hadn't been prepared for the flames licking along his body.

He was the one under attack now. He might have started the kiss, but Illya was in charge of it now. Napoleon felt as if he were being nibbled alive. Illya was nibbling on his lips, along his jaw, his earlobe, down his neck. Napoleon found himself being pulled to the couch and then pushed down, Illya tumbling on top of him.

Napoleon's legs and arms wrapped around the smaller man, capturing him completely, and he nuzzled his neck. "God, you feel so good."

Illya pulled himself free and sat up, yanking his turtleneck off. Then he looked down at Napoleon as if surprised to see him there. "What are we doing? What are you doing?" He looked completely mystified, not unwilling, just mystified.

Napoleon ran his hands up Illya's flat belly, up to his pecs, and he squeezed the hard muscles he found there, his thumbs flicking over nipples. Watching Illya groan was even better than listening to him. "Something I've wanted to do for a long time, my friend. And this--" He pulled Illya back down, kissing him again. "This is so much better than what I imagined."

Illya pulled back again, clearly astonished. "You imagined this?" His voice almost squeaked.

Napoleon let out a soft laugh. "More times than I can tell you." His hands stilled. "Wait a minute, does that mean you didn't ever imagine this?"

Illya was unbuttoning Napoleon's shirt. He shook his head. "No, Napoleon, I never imagined this."

Napoleon felt injured and he stopped Illya's hands from completing their job. "Why the hell not?"

Illya looked at him very seriously. "Because I learned a long time ago not to waste my time wishing for things I can never have." Then he smiled, a full smile that lit his face. "But, now, here you are, with me."

Napoleon loved that smile. He didn't get to see it often enough. "So this is something you wanted, even if you never imagined us together?"

Illya just nodded, still focused on buttons. He helped Napoleon struggle up high enough to get his shirt off. "Although you might have just told me what you were up to when you called this morning and saved me the trouble of getting dressed."

Napoleon snorted. They'd talked enough. He pulled Illya back down and began to kiss him, his tongue wasting no time in laying claim to Illya's mouth, wanting to fully explore this new tantalizing playground.

Illya sucked Napoleon's tongue into his mouth, and Napoleon moaned. He arched up against Illya, needing more. He snaked a hand down to free himself and met Illya's hand, presumably on the same mission. They grinned into each other's mouth as they unbuckled and unbuttoned and unzipped, the unintentional caresses, as they worked toward their goal, making them wild. 

And then they were both free and touching each other. Illya rolled to the side to give them more room, and they stroked one another. Napoleon reveled in the feel of Illya's cock. It was thicker and larger than he'd imagined, at least the size of his own, and it turned him on more than he thought possible. And the feel of Illya's hand stroking him was like magic. It was as if Illya knew exactly how to touch him, how long to make each stroke, where to be gentle and where to be rough, and he could feel his balls tightening as his release grew closer. 

Illya whispered Russian endearments in his ear in between fevered kisses, and though Napoleon only understood a few of the words, he was sure he was in complete agreement with whatever his partner was saying. Illya was panting now, his rapid breathing punctuated by those wonderful little groans, and Napoleon knew his partner was close as well. "Together, Illya. Together."

A few more strokes, and then both men ejaculated, crying out, Illya's head buried in Napoleon's shoulder, lower bodies thrusting as their cum erupted across bellies, lubricating fingers and hands.

Both bodies went limp, gasping for air. "Bozhe Moi!" 

Napoleon grinned, and let out a weak laugh. "I couldn't have said it better myself."

Illya nuzzled Napoleon's neck, placing a soft kiss. "Now can I go back to sleep?" Illya's voice sounded as if he were three-fourths of the way there already.

Napoleon nodded, but rather than waste any energy talking, he just snuggled closer and let out a satisfied sigh. 

A distant beeping woke Napoleon up. The more he listened, the louder it got. He nudged his partner. "What is that, an air raid?"

Illya shook his head, his hair tickling Napoleon's nose. "It's my alarm clock."

Napoleon brushed Illya's hair away from his face and gave him a disgusted look. "That's your alarm clock? How can you stand it?" It was getting distressingly loud.

"It keeps getting louder until I shut it off." Illya sighed. "It is a very effective alarm clock."

"Or it will be until your neighbors call the police and they remove it as evidence, after arresting you for disturbing the peace."

Illya grunted and sat up. He looked down at the mess they made and then he looked at Napoleon, his face remarkably free of emotion.

Napoleon knew better. He'd been friends with Illya long enough to know that when he had that look on his face he was an emotional minefield. "What is it?"

Illya gestured at their bodies. "Was this--was this just a--?" He shook his head, seemingly frustrated at his inability to speak a coherent sentence.

He'd said enough for Napoleon to guess the rest. "Was this just a fling? A one-time affair?"

Illya nodded, trying to look as if the answer didn't matter to him, and failing spectacularly. 

Napoleon pulled Illya back down and kissed him. "No. This was just an appetizer, with a whole banquet ahead of us." Napoleon shifted until he was able to untangle his legs. When he stood, his pants dropped to his ankles. He looked at Illya only to find him grinning. Napoleon rolled his eyes, kicked off his shoes, and shook off his pants and briefs, tugging off his socks. "Shower time." 

As the alarm's volume increased by another deafening set of decibels, Napoleon made a beeline into the bedroom and, after taking a few seconds trying to figure out how to turn the damn thing off, yanked the plug out of the wall. He sat down thankfully on the bed; the sudden silence almost as invasive as the loud noise had been, although much more welcome.

He looked up and saw Illya standing in the doorway, equally naked. Just the sight of him made Napoleon's cock twitch. He held up his hand as a warning. "Stay over there, or neither of us is getting to work on time."

It was clearly the wrong thing to say, as it seemed to pull Illya right to him. Illya reached out a hand and pulled him up. He produced a damp towel and began to wipe the drying semen off of Napoleon's hand and abdomen. Then Illya took a step back and his eyes raked over Napoleon's body from the top of his head, lingering for some length in the middle, and ending at his feet. When his gaze lifted again to Napoleon's face, his blue eyes were dark with admiration and desire. "You are beautiful, Napoleon."

Napoleon had heard words to that effect from many lovers, but it felt different this time. If Illya saw him this way, he thought, and actually took the time to put it into words, then it must be true. Napoleon returned the look, and his partner's body took his breath away. He was perfection. All cream and gold and strength, a beguiling combination. "It is you, my Russian comrade, who are beautiful." 

He reached out and pulled Illya to him, closing his eyes and letting out a pleasured exhalation as he felt all that naked flesh against his. "I told you if you came in here, we'd be late to work."

Illya was rubbing his hardening cock against Napoleon's. "I do not think I care." 

Napoleon laughed, deciding he didn't much care either, and tumbled them both into bed.

A long time later, Napoleon raised himself up on his elbows and looked down at his very sated lover. "I have to tell you something."

Illya just looked at him with sparkling blue eyes.

Napoleon glanced away. "I need to tell you something that will make you think I'm crazy."

Illya snorted. "Too late."

"This is important. Really important."

Illya's brow furrowed. "So talk. I'm listening."

Napoleon took a deep breath. "Something happened to me. And maybe it's just a dream, but I think it's real. And you really will think I'm crazy, but I want you to promise that you'll give me until the end of the day to prove it to you. Do you promise?"

Illya sat up, fully engaged now. "I promise."

Napoleon inched back until he was leaning on the headboard. Illya sat cross-legged, facing Napoleon.

"I know what's going to happen today. I've seen it. Twice. I tried to keep it from happening yesterday, but I couldn't. So, today I have another chance."

Illya frowned.

Napoleon held up his hand. "Wait. I know I'm not making any sense yet. Tuesday--a different Tuesday than this, but still today--" Napoleon waved off the start of what was no doubt a skeptical comment from Illya. "Just bear with me."

Illya closed his mouth and nodded.

"Okay. Anyway, it was a regular day, we were both in the office, and then Waverly sent me on an errand, and then he sent you on one. Late in the afternoon he called me in to his office and told me that you'd been shot." Napoleon swallowed against a rush of nausea, the presence of a warm and living Illya at his side the only thing that made the telling of this bearable. "I went to the morgue to see your body, because I didn't believe them. You'd been shot in the chest." Napoleon lifted his hand and touched Illya's chest, over his heart. "Here."

Illya covered his hand with his own. "Napoleon. What--?"

Napoleon shook his head. "Let me finish. I went home to my apartment and I drank almost an entire bottle of brandy, trying to knock myself out, but I couldn't. I threw my glass and the bottle against the wall, and then trashed my apartment a little. Finally I went to bed and cried myself to sleep." Napoleon rubbed his face with his hand, surreptitiously wiping the start of tears away, the memory of Illya's death still an exposed and raw nerve.

Illya moved closer. "I don't understand. Was this a dream?"

Napoleon ignored the question. "I woke up the next day, and everything was cleaned up in my apartment. I thought April had come by while I was passed out in the bedroom. But then I went to work and there you were. And it was Tuesday again. The same Tuesday, this Tuesday. I thought then that it had just been a dream, the worst dream I'd ever had."

Napoleon ran his hands through Illya's hair, letting the gold and ivory silk tease through his fingers. "But then things started happening, just like in the dream. Waverly sent me on the same errand, to the same address. I had lunch in the same restaurant, and my contact was the man from my dreams. Waverly had assured me that you were going to be in the lab all day working on an experiment but I started getting worried as more of my dream kept coming true. I called in and he told me he'd sent you out on an errand, the same errand that had gotten you killed on that first Tuesday."

Illya was very still, but he took tighter hold of Napoleon's hand. "What happened?"

"I got the address from Waverly and I went there." Napoleon swallowed the acid rising in his throat, turning his head away, picturing what he'd found when he'd entered the building. "I was too late. You were already dead." He pulled Illya in close and hugged him tightly. "Oh, God, there was blood everywhere. Oh, God." He knew he had to be hurting Illya, he was holding him so hard, but he couldn't let go. All he could remember was holding Illya's dead body.

"Napoleon, Napoleon. It's all right. Let me go. Napoleon, I'm fine."

The litany finally got through and Napoleon released Illya. He looked away again, holding his knuckles to his lips, trying to compose himself. "They took me to the infirmary and kept me there over night. And when I woke up this morning, I was back in my apartment." He looked at Illya. "What day is it?"

"Tuesday."

"That's right. It's Tuesday, again. I'm stuck in it. I'm stuck in a day where you keep dying."

"Is that why you came over here this morning and made love to me, because I'm going to die later today?"

Napoleon looked up, his eyes dark with fierce determination. "You are not dying today."

Illya gestured in a conciliatory gesture. "I know that. You're the one who seems to think that I'm doomed."

"No, not doomed. Now I know when and where it happens, and it won't happen today. I swear it."

Illya tilted his head to one side, and Napoleon suffered his considered scrutiny. Finally he spoke. "I'm not sure what to say, Napoleon. You're right, my first impression is that you are crazy if you think this is all real. I think that maybe you just had a bad dream." 

"But you promised you'd give me until the end of the day before you had me locked away, right?"

"Yes. I promised." Illya shrugged his shoulders. "So, what happens now?"

"I start telling the future until you believe me." He glanced at his watch. "Lisa came to our office at 11:30 and told me that Waverly wanted to see me. When she goes there and sees that I’m not there, she'll use the communicator, which should be any time now. She'll tell me that Waverly wants me to make a delivery that is due at 1:30, and that I need to come by and pick it up. It will be an envelope, but it will have top security information in it, that only you and I have clearance for.

"The location is in Little Italy, on Mulberry, and there's a little Italian restaurant where I've now eaten lunch twice." Napoleon's communicator went off. He wiggled his eyebrows at Illya, and got up to go into the living room to retrieve it. Bringing it back in, he settled back into the bed. "Napoleon here."

"Napoleon, this is Lisa. Mr. Waverly has a package he needs you to deliver by 1:30. He says it's essential it be handled by you and delivered on time."

"I'll be there shortly, Lisa. Have it ready. Solo out." Napoleon looked at Illya's dumbfounded expression and he gave him a grim smile. 

"How did you know that was going to happen?"

"I told you. It already did happen, twice." He got out bed again. "Let's take a quick shower and get dressed. You're coming with me. I'm not letting you out of my sight today."

Illya sighed. "You really think I will be shot?"

Napoleon turned quickly, his voice harsh. "You are not getting shot."

"I'm sorry. It's just--" Illya waved off the rest of what he was going to say. Twenty minutes later, both men were showered, dressed and out the door. 

Napoleon had Illya wait in the car as he ran in and got the envelope. He handed it to Illya. "Note the address, please."

Illya's eyebrows rose, and after perusing the envelope, he gave Napoleon a disbelieving look.

Napoleon headed across town. "In a little while, Waverly's going to contact you to tell you that you've been requested to pick up an order from some supply company. Supposedly, you were selected due to their explosive nature. I know you were selected because someone wants you dead. Start thinking up a reason why I need to go with you so it can wait until my errand is done." 

Illya opened his mouth to say something, but then after looking at the envelope in his hand, he just slouched down in his seat and closed his eyes. Thirty minutes later, his communicator went off. He gave Napoleon a look, and then answered it. "Kuryakin."

It was Waverly. "Ah, there you are, Mr. Kuryakin. May I inquire as to your whereabouts?"

"Yes, sir. I'm with Napoleon. We were on our way to lunch when the message came in to deliver that package. I decided to accompany him."

"Well, I'm afraid your lunch plans are off. Have Mr. Solo drop you off at the next corner and grab a taxi. I need you to pick up some supplies."

Illya flashed Napoleon another look. He spoke cautiously. "What kind of supplies?"

"The explosive sort. The company knows of your expertise and requested you specifically to ensure that no harm comes to the shipment."

Illya had put his time to good use. "I realize it might delay the pickup, sir, but we would be putting fewer innocents at potential risk if we transport the material in Napoleon's car."

Napoleon gave Illya an approving nod. The threat to innocents was always a good argument with the old man. 

There was a pause and a humph. "Very well. I'll inform them you'll be there no later than 2:00."

Napoleon shook his head and whispered. "Better make it 2:15; the guy's always late."

"What was that? What did Mr. Solo say?"

Illya glared at Napoleon. "He just said--better make it 2:15, in case the traffic is bad."

"Very well, Mr. Kuryakin. 2:15." There was a warning in his voice, as if to imply punishment if his agents dilly-dallied.

"We'll be there." Illya disassembled his communicator, shot Napoleon another look, and closed his eyes.

"Are you starting to believe me yet?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Napoleon didn't blame him. If it were true, it meant that Napoleon was prophesizing Illya's death. Napoleon gritted his teeth. Which was not going to happen. Not today. The rest of the trip was made in a grim silence.

Napoleon found a parking place close to the drop-off site, and directed Illya to the Italian restaurant. Illya stopped outside the door. "I'm not hungry, Napoleon."

Napoleon shot him an amazed look. "That's a first." He tugged his partner through the door. "It doesn't matter. You need to eat, and so do I." He lowered his voice. "While what I had for breakfast was particularly delicious and something I hope I get to taste on a regular basis, it wasn't very filling."

That coaxed a grin out of Illya. He allowed himself to be dragged across the restaurant. Napoleon watched as Illya sniffed the air, and then conceded, "Smells good."

Napoleon slid into his usual booth. Not that the waitress would recognize him. He wasn't a typical regular. "I can personally recommend the rigatoni and the lasagna."

Illya glanced at him. "From your other Tuesday lunches?"

Napoleon flashed him a tight grin. "I always eat lunch here on Tuesday." Humor wasn't going to change the situation, but it might help him make it through lunch. 

Illya rolled his eyes, and when the waitress arrived he ordered the rigatoni. Napoleon chose the same and ordered the garlic bread as well. Clearly, changing his menu selection yesterday hadn't helped turn aside the hands of fate.

Illya dug into his lunch with less than his usual enthusiasm. Finally he pushed his plate away. "So, what happens next?"

"My contact shows up at 1:36, he's a big guy wearing a light brown London Fog raincoat. He gives me the codeword, I give him the envelope and my errand is done."

There was an uncomfortable silence at the table. Illya looked away.

Napoleon grabbed his hand. "It's not going to happen, Illya. I promise."

Illya leaned forward. "How do you know that? Why are we even going? Let's just call Waverly back and tell him we suspect foul play."

"We'll tip our hand, Illya. We need to know why they're trying to kill you, not just stop it from happening today. Otherwise they might try tomorrow, or the next day."

"Maybe Waverly told him we'd both be coming. Maybe they'll be gunning for you as well as me. We shouldn't go."

"You're the one who gets shot, not me."

"But you've already changed the day, Napoleon. Who knows what will happen now? Maybe whoever's playing this cosmic joke on you requires a sacrifice, and is perfectly willing to take you. I'm not willing to exchange my life for yours."

"I am."

Illya slammed his hand on the table. "I am not. Do you think it would be any easier for me to live without you? Don’t do this to me."

Napoleon looked at his watch. "We have to go." 

"Napoleon."

"Illya, neither of us is going to die. We have the advantage. We won't go in the front door. We'll sneak in, guns drawn, and we'll end this." He pulled out a few bills and dropped them on the table. "Let's go."

Illya stood by the car as Napoleon met his contact. He slid in, shutting the door, as Napoleon crossed the street and got in the driver's side. The trip to Illya's rendezvous was silent. Napoleon parked several blocks away and glanced at his partner. "I don't suppose I could talk you into staying here, could I?"

Illya gave him an incredulous stare. "I should just shoot you with a sleep dart."

"Please don't."

"Then don't make such stupid suggestions." He turned and faced Napoleon. "In fact, you are the one who should stay here."

"Speaking of stupid suggestions."

"I know you will do something foolish to protect me."

"This is just like any other mission when we know we are walking into a trap. We watch each other's back, just like we always do."

"This is not just like any other mission." Illya pointed in the general direction of their destination. "You are sure I'm going to die in there, and that will make you especially foolhardy. I do not want to see you die."

Napoleon was done arguing. He opened the door and got out of the car. Illya was right behind him. They walked until they were at the end of the block from where the building entrance was, out of sight from anyone keeping guard. Napoleon gestured at the fire escape. "We'll go up that way." 

"Maybe we should split up and go in different entrances."

Napoleon shook his head stubbornly. "I'm not letting you out of my sight."

"It will be easier to kill us if we're both climbing in the same window."

"Whoever it is, isn't going to expect us to be climbing in a window at all. They expect you to go in the front door."

Illya frowned. "Why would I go in the front door? This isn't a supply factory. It's a deserted building. I can tell it's a trap from here, even without your warning."

"That's exactly what I thought, but for some reason you did go in, and someone shot you."

"This doesn't make any sense." Illya grabbed Napoleon's arm, stopping his forward momentum. "I have a bad feeling about this."

Napoleon snorted out a short laugh. "I up your bad feelings with my bad feelings."

Illya shook his head. "If someone wants me dead, they'll be watching for me. We need to find a way in that isn't down this alley." He looked up at the roofline. "They may already have us in their sights."

"All the more reason to let me go in alone."

"You don't know that they want me dead, specifically. This may be a plot to take out UNCLE agents, and they only started with me." He poked Napoleon's chest. "They may find you a very acceptable substitute."

Napoleon tapped his watch. "Tick tock. We wait much longer and whoever it is may decide no one is coming and go home."

Illya looked as if that idea worked for him. 

Napoleon shook his head. "We end this right now. I really will go insane if I'm trying to protect you from another plot when I have no idea when it will happen or the form it will take. And me going insane will drive you insane. At least now we know where the danger is." He pointed at the next street. "We'll go down there, and enter from that side. It must cut through somehow."

Illya let out a long breath. Then he glared up at Napoleon. "If you get hurt trying to do something stupid to protect me, I will kill you myself."

"Ditto, partner."

Illya made a scoffing sound. Napoleon didn't blame him. It was a pretty sure bet that they'd both try to do something stupid. All Napoleon had to do was make sure he did it first. 

Keeping a close eye on windows and the roofline, the two men made it to the other side of the building. Napoleon risked a peek in one of the windows. He crouched down scowling. "This is just the other side of the room I found you in." He had hoped it would be another suite of rooms.

Illya pointed to the fire escape on the side they were on. "Let's take these. At least it will put us upstairs."

Napoleon took another quick peek. "We'll have to go up at least three flights. The second story is just a loft for the main bottom floor." 

Illya nodded and headed toward the steps, keeping low and hugging the building. 

Napoleon's eyes were everywhere as he followed Illya, looking for the shooter, trying to figure out how he could make sure to be between the bullet and his partner. He headed up the fire escape pushing in front of Illya, ignoring the dark look that was shot his way. Both their weapons were drawn.

Their ascent was slow as the stairs were creaky, but finally they reached the third floor. Napoleon mentally crossed his fingers and hoped the window was unlocked. It was. Napoleon quietly slid it open. He and Illya stood to each side of it, listening for any noise coming from within.

Everything was silent. After poking his head in cautiously, Napoleon went in first, Illya right behind him. Back to back, they surveyed the area. The building was falling apart, the walls were cracked, and pieces of drywall and ceiling tiles littered the floor. They walked gingerly through the debris, heading for a doorway that was marked with an exit sign. On the other side, they found themselves in a stairwell. Napoleon moved quickly to lead the silent charge down, feeling another glare, which he again chose to ignore.

Illya, with hand gestures, suggested that Napoleon try the second floor loft while he go down to the first floor. Napoleon, with a very emphatic hand gesture, vetoed that idea. He decided to let Illya go first, so he couldn't sneak off anywhere. 

It didn't take them long to determine that there were no hiding places in the loft and, within a few minutes, they had both thoroughly searched the first floor. Illya holstered his gun. "There is no one here."

Napoleon scowled, feeling contrarily unhappy about the whole affair, despite the fact that Illya was not lying on the ground with a fatal chest wound. 

Illya rolled his eyes. "Why do you look so unhappy? I am alive, right?"

"For the time being." He started moving around the room again, staring up into the loft, wishing he wasn't still feeling a trickle of dread on the nape of his neck.

Illya grabbed Napoleon on one of his passes and wrapped his arms around him, hugging him tightly. "Napoleon, in our line of work, either of us could die at any time. There are always people trying to kill us." He rubbed his cheek against Napoleon's broad shoulder. "It is nice to be able to do this."

Napoleon smiled down at his partner. "It's even nicer to be able to do this." He lowered his head and kissed Illya. 

There was a sound from the street, and Napoleon spun, pulling his gun out, standing in front of his partner.

Illya shoved him out of the way. "Stop it, Napoleon."

Recognizing the futility of getting into a fistfight with his partner, ostensibly to save his life, Napoleon consented to standing side by side. They both listened intently. Napoleon crept to one of the windows and took a look outside. He glanced at Illya and shook his head, communicating the fact that he didn't see anything.

Napoleon noticed, with a lurch in his gut, that Illya was standing too close to the spot Napoleon had found him in yesterday. He could almost imagine the pool of blood spreading around him. He waved his gun arm. "Illya, move."

The front door slammed open. Napoleon was pulling his finger back on the trigger of his gun when he heard Illya's voice. "Vladimir?"

It made him hesitate. He glanced at the man in the doorway and didn't see a gun. Napoleon turned his head to check things out with Illya, to find out if this was a friend. He heard the gunshot. He saw the blood splatter from a chest wound shot, and he watched in disbelief as Illya's body was slammed back from the impact of the bullet.

Napoleon's head turned again, his eyes crazed, and he shot the man in the doorway with every bullet in his gun. One after another, he riddled the man's body with bullets, his body jerking in a macabre dance of death before falling to the floor. When he ran out of bullets, Napoleon threw his gun across the room, and ran to Illya. 

He wasn't dead yet, but he would be soon. Napoleon put his hand on the wound, as if he might stop the river gushing out. Tears were streaming down his face. "Not again. Oh, Jesus, not again. Please."

Illya stared up at him, trying to catch his breath. "I'm sorry."

Napoleon shook his head. "My fault. It's my fault." He let out a sob. "Oh, God. Illya."

Illya tried to reach up to touch Napoleon but he didn't have the strength. Napoleon grabbed his hand and held it against his cheek. Illya's words were slurring, and Napoleon bent down so he could hear. "Not--your--fault. I--love you." 

Napoleon felt him die. From one second to the next. From gentle absolution to sightless eyes. Napoleon looked down on the face he loved, and gently closed Illya's eyes. He staggered to his feet, crossed to the nearest window and punched his fist through the glass. He retrieved his hand, careless of the jagged glass still remaining and moved to the next window and did the same. 

Napoleon destroyed every window on the first floor. He wasn't sure if he was trying to kill himself by slitting his wrist, or simply trying to cause enough pain that he'd have something physical to focus on while he did the next thing that needed to be done.

Finally, hands bruised and bloodied, he walked back to Illya, sinking to his knees. He pulled out his communicator and signaled headquarters. Napoleon gave them an address, told them there was an agent down, and requested a pickup. Then he hurled the communicator across the room, and lying down next to Illya, he took his dead lover's body in his arms.

* * *

Napoleon woke up in his own bed again. Lifting his hands, he saw they were undamaged. He had a vague recollection of being lifted off Illya, of being taken to the infirmary, his hands washed and stitched. It all seemed like a blur.

He wondered how much more he could take. He wondered, instead of being given chances over and over again, if this was hell. He'd died and gone to hell, and his punishment for being a son of a bitch was that every day, no matter what he did, he'd watch Illya die.

It wouldn't matter if he tied Illya up in his apartment, or drove him across state lines. Somehow, every day, he'd end up in that empty room in that deserted building, being shot down. Day after day, month after month, year after year. Forever.

Napoleon glanced at his bedside clock. He was already going to be late for work. He thought about calling Illya, but decided against it. Napoleon knew he was alive; he'd be alive for several more hours yet. Until some man named Vladimir murdered him. Again. 

He could see it in his mind. He could see Illya approaching the door cautiously, knowing it was a trap. Maybe Vladimir opens the door, invites him in, tells him he wants to talk. Maybe Illya enters on his own, and like today, when he sees his would-be assassin, and sees that it is somebody he knows, he hesitates, just like Napoleon did.

Napoleon lay there as his anger for Illya's killer grew. And as it grew, he hatched a plan. If it worked, this would be over. If it didn't, Napoleon would know he was in hell. He reached for his communicator, called in sick, and arranged for a message to that effect to be left for Illya. Then he put his communicator on send mode only, so no one could call him. 

He got up, took a shower, ate a quick breakfast, and dressed. Napoleon checked his gun, made sure it had a full clip, slipped a silencer into his pocket and left his apartment.

Taking a cab to the deserted office building, Napoleon climbed in the same window he and Illya had entered through before. He made his way down the stairwell to the first floor. Napoleon rearranged a few empty boxes, moving them until he was satisfied that no one would see anything but a pile of empty boxes, would not guess that it was a barrier behind which he would be hiding.

Napoleon sat down so he could see both doors through small gaps in the boxes. He took out his gun and attached the silencer. Holding the gun loosely across his knees, his eyes cold, he settled back for a long wait.

He'd been there for three hours when he heard someone opening the door. Napoleon kept his eyes on the door, waiting for his target. A man entered, closing the door behind him. When he turned around, Napoleon could see that it was Vladimir. Aiming carefully, Napoleon put a bullet right between his eyes. 

He stood, putting on some black gloves. Napoleon moved to the body, searching Vladimir's pockets until he found his weapon. Pulling it out, he checked the man's hands, looking for calluses that would indicate which hand he shot with. He was too good a shot not to have significant experience with a gun. 

Determining it was the right hand, Napoleon wrapped the dead fingers around the butt of the gun, curling the index finger around the trigger. Then he let the arm drop, the gun falling where it lay. He searched for the man's ID, and found a wallet in an inner pocket of the man's jacket.

Moving across the room, away from the dead man, Napoleon called Headquarters, asking to speak with Lisa. Using every bit of charm he had, he cajoled her until she told him where Illya was picking up supplies. Waverly could sometimes be a stickler for withholding information as to an agent's whereabouts, and Lisa knew that, but seeing as it was just an errand, and seeing as it was Napoleon, and seeing as how he and Illya were friends, Lisa finally gave the address to Napoleon.

Napoleon signed off, pleased that his bases were covered. He now had a reason to be here, it was clear from the setting that this had been a trap, the man had been holding a gun, and Napoleon shot him in self-defense. Case closed.

He opened the wallet. All it contained was a picture ID with a name on it. Vladimir Malachenko. Napoleon would have assumed it was a fake ID, except that Illya had called him Vladimir. Napoleon wondered who he was and why he had wanted to kill Illya. He glanced at the ID again and then at the body across the room. He was not a good-looking man, and the bullet hole in his forehead didn't help. 

Napoleon considered the fact that he had just killed this man in cold blood. But then he glanced at the spot where for two days in a row he had held Illya's dead body and, suddenly, Napoleon found himself fervently wishing he were still alive so he could shoot him again.

Not wanting to be in the room with him anymore, Napoleon took off the silencer, slipped it into his pocket, holstered his gun and went out the front door. He walked to the end of the block, where Illya couldn't help but see him when he arrived, and leaned against the building.

He was just looking at his watch, noting it was 2:15, when he saw Illya heading toward him. Napoleon couldn’t take his eyes off of him. Illya gave him a puzzled smile. "Napoleon, what are you doing here? I thought you were sick."

"I started feeling better, so I talked Lisa into telling me where you were."

Reminded of his errand, Illya glanced at the building. He frowned. "This doesn't look right."

"It isn't. Someone was planning on making this a one-way trip for you."

"You went in without me?" The frown grew deeper. "You should have waited for me, Napoleon. We should have gone in together."

Napoleon barely held back a bitter laugh, not wanting to think about how badly that strategy had turned out. "Well, you know me. Where angels fear to tread and all that."

Illya gave Napoleon a last frown, and then apparently decided not to scold his partner any longer. "What did you find?"

Napoleon handed him the man's ID. "You know this man?"

Illya's eyebrows rose. "Vladimir Malachenko?" He glanced up at Napoleon. "He is KGB."

Napoleon's gut clenched. KGB. That meant more assassins if they wanted Illya dead. "Why is the KGB trying to kill you?"

Illya shook his head. "I don't think it is the KGB. Vladimir hated me, and more than once threatened me."

"For what?" Every story Napoleon heard from Illya about his time with the KGB made him grateful that Illya was no longer a part of it. He had no idea how his partner had escaped with his soul intact.

"I was younger than he, and I was given a promotion he thought should be his."

"He tried to kill you because of a job?" Napoleon wanted to go in there and rip the man's balls off and shove them down his throat. Illya had almost died because of a fucking job?

"Not just a job, Napoleon. It is never just a job in the KGB. Every higher position comes with power and prestige, and a better lifestyle. He was getting older, and opportunities were few and far between. I could feel his hatred like a knife in my back. It was not the most pleasant of work environments."

Napoleon snorted at Illya's dry, matter-of-fact tone. "Why now?"

Illya glanced up at him. "What?"

"Why now? Why was he trying to kill you now?"

Illya shrugged. "Maybe they retired him and he needed a hobby." He shrugged again. "Who knows? Maybe he was sent here for another job and he decided to kill two birds with one stone." Illya gestured toward the building. "I assume he is dead."

Napoleon nodded. "Very."

"Good." He smiled gently up at Napoleon. "I am glad he did not shoot you, tovarisch." 

Napoleon stared down at him, mesmerized by the smile, by the brilliant blue eyes, knowing his own eyes were revealing too much of what was in his heart. He couldn't help it. His entire being was rejoicing with the knowledge that this Tuesday, Illya was not going to die. "Have dinner with me tonight?" 

For a few seconds, Napoleon was afraid that Illya would say no. Not that it would have dissuaded him. He knew Illya wanted him; he knew Illya loved him and he couldn't wait anymore. Not when he'd already had Illya in his arms, and tasted his cum, and felt Illya's cock in his body. He wanted to hold Illya again tonight; he wanted to hold him every night for the rest of his life. 

He watched the confusion in Illya's eyes. Whatever he had seen in Napoleon's eyes had unsettled him. Then the confusion turned to curiosity and Napoleon knew he'd get his dinner. He sweetened the deal. "Anywhere you want to go."

"Anywhere?"

Napoleon remembered his earlier qualifications and added them again. "Within reason, and it can't be someplace you know I hate."

Illya scowled. "You take all the fun out of it, Napoleon."

"I know. So, will you have dinner with me?"

Illya let out a long beleaguered breath. "I suppose so. I don't really having anything else to do. And I am out of food."

Napoleon rolled his eyes. "You're a brat." He glanced around. "Did you drive or take a taxi?"

"I drove."

"Come on, you can drive us back to the office, and then you can drive us to dinner." And then, he added to himself, you can drive me back to my apartment and spend the night. In fact, his fantasy continued, we can stop at your place on the way, and you can pack a couple of suitcases.

Illya pointed back toward the building. "Did you call that in? Maybe I should take a look at him first, make sure he is Vladimir."

Napoleon nodded and led the way.

Illya looked down at him. "It's him." He pointed at the man's head. "Nice shot."

Napoleon grinned. "Thanks. I aim to please." 

Illya rolled his eyes at the pun. "Seeing as you were so kind as to shoot him and save me the trouble, I will call it in." He pulled out his communicator, and requested a body disposal. He left the message that they'd report the incident to Waverly when they returned to the office. Illya tucked the silver cylinder back into his pocket and gestured for Napoleon to leave the premises. 

Once they were back on the street, Illya patted his stomach. "I had lunch at a nice Italian place this afternoon. Angelo's, on Mulberry, in between Grand and Hester."

Napoleon knew the place all too well. "I've been there a few times. What did you have?"

"Rigatoni."

"With the garlic bread?"

"Of course."

Napoleon nodded. "They make a nice rigatoni."

* * *

Illya decided on a Greek restaurant, and Napoleon was happily finishing up a piece of baklava. He eyed Illya's last piece. 

"Don't even think about it, Napoleon."

Napoleon sat back in the booth. "Are you even going to eat it?"

"Maybe."

"Like I said, you're a brat."

"But a brat with baklava." 

Napoleon grinned. "I don't think Mr. Waverly was too happy."

"He never likes it when he has a dead KGB agent on his hands." 

Napoleon's eyes darkened as the vision of Illya lying dead filled his mind. "Better a KGB agent than you." His voice came out harsher than he intended.

Illya cocked his head to the side and Napoleon could feel his partner's eyes on him. "Thank you, Napoleon."

That startled Napoleon. "For what?"

"For shooting him. I would have found it quite distasteful if I'd had to kill him, despite the fact that we never got along. And I would have found it even more distressing to think that he might have been successful in killing me."

Napoleon took a cautious sip of the ouzo Illya had insisted he order. Illya always liked all food and drink ordered in a restaurant to be true to the nationality. Otherwise, he had retorted to Napoleon with a touch of superiority, why bother to eat there at all? Food was a serious business to Illya. 

Napoleon thought of Illya dead, thought of all the meals, and all the conversations, and all the teasing that would have gone out of his life. "Not as distressed as I would have been." His voice was tight as it made its way past the lump in his throat. Napoleon closed his eyes. Please let this be over. Please don't make me go through this again. And when it does happen for keeps, let it happen to both of us.

He felt a touch on his hand, and he opened his eyes to see Illya's worried gaze. "Are you all right, moy droog?"

Napoleon let out a shaky laugh. "It's been a long day."

Illya held out the baklava. "Will this help?"

"Not as much as having you here with me helps." Napoleon snatched the baklava. "Not that I won't take it." He broke it into small bites and put one in his mouth.

He could see Illya trying to work through his comment, trying to see if it was anything more than a friendly comment from a tired partner. 

Napoleon decided to help a little. He picked up one of the pieces of baklava, and reached across the table. "Open up."

Illya was just startled enough to obey.

Napoleon placed the baklava in Illya's mouth and made a point of grazing Illya's full bottom lip with his thumb as he pulled back.

Confusion was brewing in the blue eyes. "Napoleon?"

Napoleon just held his gaze. "Take me home, Illya. Come up and have a drink with me."

The confusion was still there, but Napoleon saw a flicker of desire flash through Illya's eyes. It made Napoleon's groin tighten. Illya nodded.

Napoleon glanced at the check and threw some money down. Then he followed Illya out to the car. The trip was made in silence, but the air grew steadily thicker as Napoleon kept stealing glances at Illya, only to repeatedly catch Illya looking at him. Illya parked next to Napoleon's car and they both got out and walked to the elevator. 

Napoleon watched as Illya tried to rein in whatever he was feeling, standing as far away from Napoleon as he could. That didn't suit Napoleon's plans for the evening, so he made quite a deal out of a flyer posted on the elevator wall near to Illya's head. The small print gave him an excuse to move very close, almost breathing in Illya's ear, as he pretended to read it. Napoleon bit back a smile when he heard Illya's rapidly in-drawn breath.

The elevator dinged out its destination and the two men exited.

Napoleon could feel himself getting hard in anticipation of what was to come. His eyes drifted down to Illya's butt as his partner walked a couple feet in front of him. When they reached the door to his apartment, Illya turned and Napoleon saw the heat in his eyes register in his partner's. Then Illya's eyes dropped, and Napoleon knew his erection would be impossible to miss. Not to another man.

Illya's lips parted and Napoleon felt such a surge of desire shoot through him he knew he had to get in the apartment fast or he was going to tackle Illya here. He keyed in the alarm override, and shoved open the door. As soon as he got it shut behind them, Napoleon pushed Illya against the door, and pressed up against him, capturing his lips. 

And just like that, Illya was on fire too and Napoleon felt eager hands clutch at him. Willing lips opened underneath his onslaught, welcoming his tongue inside. 

Only the need for air parted their lips. And while drawing in the needed breath, the rest of their bodies stayed closely connected, hands caressing, hard shaft against hard shaft.

Finally Illya pulled back. He gazed up at Napoleon, eyes hazy with desire and a hint of caution. "What are we doing?"

Napoleon grinned, and caught Illya's bottom lip between his teeth, gently tugging. He followed the soft bite with a swipe of his tongue. "I would hope that would be obvious, or I'm clearly losing my touch."

Illya took a step away. "No, that's not what I mean."

Napoleon knew what he meant. He knew that Illya didn't want this to be a one-night stand, his relationship with Napoleon too important to screw up with a wild night of sex.

Napoleon knew that wasn't the case, but he needed to let Illya in on the news. Napoleon dragged him to the couch, and made him sit down. Napoleon settled next to him, and took Illya's hand in his.

He jumped into it with both feet. "Illya Kuryakin, I love you. I have for a long time. I want to take you in my bedroom and make love to you all night long, and I don't ever want you to go home. If the world were a different place, I'd get down on my knee and propose to you, but I can't. But I can tell you that there is no one in the world as important to me as you are. There never has been, and there never will be."

Napoleon had made a lot of pretty speeches to people over the years, but he had never meant one more than this one, or had anything more important hinge on the outcome. He let all the love in his heart shine in his eyes, and he laid himself open to the man he loved.

Illya looked at him for a long time, as if he might actually read Napoleon's heart and soul, find the truth written in his eyes. Napoleon barely drew a breath while he was under his partner's scrutiny. Then, when he saw a hint of joy in Illya's eyes, he felt an answering joy build in his chest.

Illya laced his fingers through Napoleon's. "You mean this?"

Napoleon nodded.

Illya stared at him a few moments longer, and then he stood, pulling Napoleon up with him. He smiled at his partner. "Seeing as I have already made the supreme sacrifice and given you my baklava, giving you the rest of me seems a small thing."

Napoleon let out a dramatic sigh. "Here I've poured my heart out to you, and all you can do is think about food."

Illya gazed up at him, his face serious. "I love you, too, Napoleon."

Napoleon pulled Illya into his arms, his heart momentarily too full to answer. Then he looked down at his partner. "This has been one hell of a day."

Illya grinned. "You haven't seen anything yet." He pulled away and crooked his finger, inviting Napoleon to follow him. 

With that promise shooting straight to his groin, Napoleon chased Illya into the bedroom.

Thirty minutes later he was in heaven. Yesterday morning he'd been the seducer, he'd even seduced Illya into taking him, teased him until Illya had flipped him over and rammed that sweet cock right up his ass. And up until he'd followed his partner into the bedroom tonight, he'd been playing the same role. Napoleon Solo, great seducer. But now he had surrendered completely to Illya, and nothing had ever felt as wonderful. 

He hadn't been given a choice. Illya had taken control the second they passed through the bedroom door. The Russian had systematically stripped his clothes off, pushed him on to the bed, and proceeded to make himself at home with Napoleon's body from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet. Napoleon had never felt quite so thoroughly worshipped before. 

Despite the hardness of his cock and the unrelieved pressure, his body was feeling deliciously sated, as if he'd just gotten the massage of his life. Which he supposed he had. To every square inch of him. He hoped it never stopped. He let out a groan of pleasure as Illya drew one of his balls into his hot mouth. What the man could do with his tongue would make a whore sit up and take notes. Napoleon let out another groan.

Illya began to kiss his way back up Napoleon's body. "You like that?"

Napoleon just groaned again as Illya licked a nipple. The power of speech seemed to have escaped him. God, but he loved that tongue. Napoleon grabbed a handful of blonde hair and dragged Illya's mouth up to his. No pleasantries were exchanged, it was an immediate battle of tongues and teeth and lips. 

The kiss left them both breathless and after a few seconds gasping for air, the battle was engaged again. Through it all, Illya slid his cock up and down against Napoleon's belly. Napoleon felt Illya reach back and lift his cock, letting it rest in the cleft of Illya's ass. Now, every time Illya slid up and down, Napoleon's cock was teased with a promise of a tight, hot sheathe. 

The sated feeling left his body and was replaced by an urgent sense of need. He wanted to crawl inside of Illya, he wanted to shove his tongue deeper into his mouth, and take possession of the Russian by shoving his hot cock, inch by inch, into that delectable body, until they were as close as two people could be. 

Napoleon felt Illya's hand reach back one more time and his head fell back, his neck and back arching, as he felt the cool touch of lubricant covering his penis. His hands shot out and held Illya's hips, wanting to make sure that he stayed put, that the promised hot sheath stayed within centimeters of the cock being so lovingly prepared.

Illya, his fingers still wrapped around Napoleon's cock, smiled down at him with a smile worthy of Venus herself. "Do you want me, Napoleon?"

Napoleon thrust into the slick fingers. Want seemed like such a paltry word. He reached around Illya's hips and touched himself, taking some of the lubricant onto his fingers, enticingly tangling with Illya’s fingers.

Illya was still smiling, his eyes so blue and glazed with desire. He whispered, "Can you guess what I want?" Napoleon, still speech deprived, felt Illya's fingers withdraw and his cock happily nestled back in the cleft of Illya's ass. 

Napoleon shared the space with his cock, running his fingers across the puckered entrance to Illya's body. He watched his partner's face, watched the eyes close at the touch, the soft whimper that escaped his lips. Napoleon pressed gently, easing his finger in, his eyes never leaving Illya's face. 

It was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen. Every touch, every inch of the hot tunnel he conquered with his finger, every caress he made to the inside of Illya's body, showed up on Illya's face. His lips parted, his tongue darted out to wet dry lips, his chin lifted accompanied by moans that seeped inside Napoleon's body and fed the need that was all but consuming him.

He eased a second finger inside, ignoring his own cock's aching need to stake its own claim. Illya's body began to settle back, deepening the fingers inside of him. Napoleon let him control it, only trying to position his fingers so they rubbed against Illya's prostate.

Illya leaned down and opened Napoleon's mouth with his tongue, fucking Napoleon's mouth with the same rhythm that he was letting Napoleon's fingers fuck his ass. Napoleon couldn't stand it anymore. He pulled out his fingers and positioned his cock.

Illya pushed back as Napoleon thrust forward, and after a few seconds of resistance, Napoleon slid inside. He and Illya groaned into each other's mouths. Illya sat up and back, allowing Napoleon to penetrate even more deeply. The smile was back. "You feel so good inside me." He lifted up, letting Napoleon slide partway out, and then he inched back down. He caught Napoleon's eyes, and they shared a look of ecstasy. 

Illya lifted up again, ever so slowly, and then back down, even more slowly. Napoleon found his voice. "You're doing this on purpose, aren't you? You're trying to drive me insane."

Illya let out a silent chuckle. "Is it working?"

As Illya lifted again, Napoleon couldn't take it anymore. He pushed Illya down with a firm yank on his hips, and then he flipped them. 

When he heard Illya's laugh, he looked down to find the Russian grinning at him. And he knew, even though Illya had no memory of their love making the previous morning, that Illya had done the same thing he had, seducing Napoleon into giving Illya the ride of his life.

Napoleon grinned back, and as he looked down on Illya's body, the instant before he began to ride him into oblivion, Napoleon could see the future, could see the days, and months and years of lovemaking ahead with this man, the tenderness and roughness, the seducing and being seduced, and it was perfect. 

* * *

Napoleon woke up in bed alone and knew he was in hell. He let out an anguished cry.

Illya rushed into the room, toothbrush in hand, a fresh dab of toothpaste lying across the bristles. "What happened? Are you all right?" 

Napoleon began to breathe again. "You're here."

Illya gave him a soft smile. "Did you think I would leave?"

Napoleon waved off his concern. "Never mind. It was just a nightmare." He rolled on his side, the better to appreciate his partner's body as he stood there, au natural. "What day is it?"

"Wednesday."

Napoleon smiled. "I love Wednesdays."

Illya waved the toothbrush. "Well, get up and brush your teeth, and I'll make you love them even more."

"I take it you're not a fan of morning breath."

Illya made an expression of horror. "If you expect this relationship to last, Napoleon, don't ever kiss me in the morning until you've brushed your teeth."

Napoleon was out of bed in a flash, his arms around Illya, doing his best to breathe on him. Illya shoved the toothbrush in Napoleon's mouth.

Napoleon conceded the fight, and began to brush his teeth. Illya went back in the bathroom, and opened up the drawer where Napoleon kept all the toothbrushes he'd picked up from various hotels across the world. He opened one, squeezed some toothpaste onto it and began to brush his own teeth.

As they both rinsed, Napoleon grinned. "Do you know how many times we've done this, stood side-by-side in a hotel room, brushing our teeth, washing our faces? Hundreds of times, probably."

Illya looked at their reflection in the mirror. "We haven't been naked, though."

Napoleon barked out a laugh. "No, we haven't been naked." He moved behind Illya, and rubbed his penis against Illya's ass. "I like doing this naked."

Illya rubbed against him, making a contented humming noise. Then he glanced up and looked at Napoleon's face in the mirror. "Why do you like Wednesdays so much?"

Napoleon nibbled on Illya's shoulder. "Because it's the day after Tuesday."

Illya arched his neck to the side, giving Napoleon better access, while he considered Napoleon's answer. Napoleon watched his partner lose interest in the conversation with every new nibble. Illya flicked the bathroom light off. "Then, let's go to bed and start this Wednesday off right."

The End.


End file.
